He'd thought only of Magiere.

And the worst, most infuriating and confusing part was that of all the things he'd done tonight, the one she fixed upon was that thing sitting in his lap.

A deep sigh from Magiere caught Leesil's attention. When he looked up, she was gazing at his white hair hanging past his shoulders.

"You lost your scarf," she said. "We'll have to get you a new one."

Leesil reached into his pocket and pulled out an entire handful of coins, which he poured onto the bed in front of her.

"Here. I won back most of what I lost on the ship, but I doubt the scarf makes much difference anymore."

He felt thankful for the change of topic. But when she saw the coins, he realized too late that it was another mistake. He quickly rambled on before she could cut into him.

"A scarf won't hide my eyes or skin. It seems my people are more of an oddity here than I realized."

Her attention pulled from the coins. "Your people?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't," she answered with an abrupt shake of her head that whipped wisps of black hair about her pale face. "I didn't forget what you did back in the alley. You didn't learn that in a month of mornings out in the woods."

Leesil busied himself with Chap again. This wasn't what he'd expected. Now was not the time. But she leaned in toward him across the bed.

"Look at me!" she snapped. "We're in a bad way, and I don't know what to do next. The only two things I've ever counted on besides myself are you and this dog. You changed when we settled in Miiska, for the better, but now… now you're starting to act like the old Leesil from our days on the road-or worse. Drinking, gambling, and-"

"And nothing," he cut in. "That wasn't what it looked like."

"This isn't about that whorish little monster you let dazzle your wits."

"I wasn't dazzled!"

"I don't want to fight with you-but I will. Now, tell me, what's wrong?"

His jaw tightened. This was going to be bad, and worse for the timing-worse than being caught with an undead trollop in his lap.

"I promise I'll never touch a drop of wine again. I will always be sharp, in control. And I'll stay that way."

Candlelight flickered upon Magiere's face, and Leesil could see his response wasn't enough. Chap's breathing deepened into a light snore as he rested comfortably between them, and Leesil set the basin out of the way on the floor.

"I need more than promises," Magiere said.

"What do you mean?" Futile as it was, Leesil still hoped there was a way out of this.

Magiere let out a sigh. "I don't talk about my past because there's little to tell and even less that I know for certain." She looked him directly in the eyes. "But I would tell you anything of it… anything you asked, if I knew the answer. So why won't you tell about your life before we met?"

"There's nothing you want to hear, and it doesn't matter anymore." For all his usual guile, this came out as a blatant evasion, and she ignored it.

"Where did you learn to fight like that? What is that long box of strange tools you carry, and where did it come from? It never mattered before, because you kept it hidden away until two moons ago. It matters now."

Leesil closed his eyes. If he told her, what would she do? What could she do but walk away and never look back?

"Anmaglahk," he whispered.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's an elvish word my mother used. I never learned its meaning, but after a while it wasn't hard to guess with the way we lived. She used it rarely for herself. And once for me."

Magiere settled back to the bed's edge, staring at him.

"She was an assassin," Leesil said, his voice flat and emotionless. "So was my father. So was I."

Wariness-or was it revulsion? — replaced the anger on Magiere's smooth face. She looked briefly about the room, perhaps wondering where his "tools" might now be hidden, then down to his arms. His cuffs were loose and unbound, and one hilt of a stiletto in its wrist sheath protruded. Leesil slowly pulled his hands back into his lap and closed his sleeves.

"Your mother-an elf-was an assassin." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You murdered for money?"

"You know of the Warlands far up north," he continued. "Provinces, not even true countries, where rulers hold power by military force. Ever heard of a Lord Darmouth?"

"Yes," she answered hesitantly.

"My family served him. We were his slaves-his spies and assassins."

Magiere turned away toward the far wall.

Leesil was afraid now, and few things frightened him anymore. There was little else to do but finish.

"Rulers like Darmouth have enemies, not only outside their borders but within. And if they don't, they still think they do anyway. I was raised to deal with those enemies-proficiently. By the age of five, my parents were already training me. At first it was just a thin dagger I held, wielding it like a sword while pretending to be a warrior. I didn't know we were property to be owned. But in the years after, I wondered about the purpose of the strange things they taught me, until I no longer had to wonder. When to move silently, unnoticed. How to lie convincingly. Who and what to watch for in the dark. Which places on a body afford the quickest kill."

Magiere peered back over her shoulder. All Leesil saw was one eye watching him.

"The toolbox," she said. "That's what it's for?"

He nodded. "From my mother. Probably made by her people, though I don't know how or why. I learned to use everything in it, and I was a good slave, for a while. Some days I can still remember every person I've killed."

"And now you need new tools? You bartered with the smith for them."

"No, that has nothing to do with my past," Leesil added, his own voice suddenly harsh. "I can't keep trying to take vampires with stilettos. I need something else. But I've no time to learn any standard weapon, so I'm having ones made to fit the skills I have."

Magiere shook her head, holding up a hand to ward off his words.

"Even a slave can think for himself," she said. "So why didn't you run before it was too late? Why didn't all of you run?"

Such a simple choice, Leesil thought. If it had only been that simple. And he laughed.

Magiere spun about to glare at him. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he answered, no smile on his face. "Absolutely nothing. We were never allowed to work together. There was always at least one-mother, father, or son-who stayed behind under a watchful eye to ensure the job was done, and the one at work came home again."

He watched her eyes for any hint of understanding. When it didn't come, he simply went on.

"I was forced to betray a kind old teacher falsely accused of treason, and he was hanged. That was when I ran. I lived on the road with Chap, drinking myself to sleep to forget-until I met you, and we began a whole new round of killing."

"Killing?" Magiere shook her head. "We've never killed anything together besides undeads."

Leesil took in her puzzled expression and hated himself even more. But as long as it was all coming out, she might as well face the whole past.

"The peasants?" he asked. "You're thinking too simply again. How many peasants starved because we took their seed coin? Or died in the stocks from exposure, or were worked to death in indentured service because they couldn't pay their taxes?"

Her head hung low. "Now at least we try to make up for those years. But what we did wasn't the same as being paid to take a life."

"You can never make up for it," he argued. "It doesn't work that way."

There was no bitterness in his voice, for this was simply how things were.

"Now we save people," he continued. "We do what we can to help. It's a better life, for the most part, than the ones I've lived before."